His Hands
by J9
Summary: If Sara's ever asked what she first noticed about Warrick, she knows what she'll say. (Warrick-Sara)


**Title:**  His Hands

**Rating:** PG13

**Fandom: **CSI

**Pairing**: Sara/Warrick

**Feedback:** Makes my day

**Word Count: **1,184

**Disclaimer:** If it was in the show, it's not mine.

**Archive:** At my site Checkmate (http:helsinkibaby.ahkay.net) , Fanfiction.net; anywhere else, please ask.

**Summary:** Sara loves Warrick's hands

**Notes: **For the LiveJournal post-coital challenge. Didn't use the prompt given – bad me.

If Sara's ever asked what she first noticed about Warrick, she'll reply honestly, and without a moment's hesitation, "His hands." She's pretty sure that whoever asks the question will be amazed at that particular response, because there's so much more than that to admire about the man. Nevertheless, it is the truth.

In her defence, she will remind them that she was brought to Vegas specifically to investigate his role in the death of Holly Gribbs, that when she first saw him, he was playing hands of Blackjack in a dive of a casino on Blue Diamond Road. He was staring at his cards, wondering whether to hit or stick, and she stared at the cards too, at the hands holding them, advising him to stick, telling him she needed to talk to him.

It was only when he looked up that she noticed those incredible eyes.

Only when he stood up that she noticed that incredible body.

And when she noticed herself noticing, she pushed those thoughts far, far away, because she had a job to do, a man to investigate.

Later, when her job was done, she didn't go back to San Francisco, stayed in Vegas. And she didn't look at Warrick like that straight away, not when she had Grissom to look at, long held feelings for him to deal with.

She mightn't have looked at Warrick that way; at times, she could hardly stand to be in the same room as him, never mind anything else. But in good times or bad between them, she always noticed his hands.

There was strength in those hands, enough to wield a baseball bat and break a window, enough to pack a mean punch when encased in boxing gloves. But they were gentle too, gentle enough to brush along her shoulder, the small of her back, as he was passing by her, and deft enough to dance through evidence collection, light enough to lift a fingerprint off the air.

Once, they were at a crime scene when she heard a piano playing, not for long, just a couple of chords. She left the kitchen, came into the living room, saw his gloved hands moving along the ivory keys of a baby grand, and she knew then that she'd been right, that those hands were perfect for playing music. He stopped when he saw her there, or maybe even before, sending an almost sheepish grin her way, and she wanted to tell him not to stop on her account, that she would love to listen to him play.

She wanted to, but they were on the clock, and he was her friend, and she was in love with Grissom, not with him, so she kept her own counsel.

She's not altogether sure how they got from there to here, but here they are, and she is once again staring at Warrick's hands.

But now, they are not on the clock, nor are they in someone's living room. They are in someone's bedroom, his bedroom, and she is very aware of the warmth of his skin at her back as their bodies spoon together, of how natural it feels to be lying on her side, encircled in his arms. Their left hands are joined together, fingers entwined, the palm of his covering the back of her smaller hand, and she stares at those long fingers, those musician's fingers, and she shivers as she remembered how they danced over her skin, how they made her shiver with delight, made her arch against him, cry out his name. She shivers again now at the memory, and as she does so, he flexes his fingers, opening them out and closing them again, making her fingers move as well. His grip, when they close, is momentarily tight, not enough to cause pain, but enough to let her know that he is awake, a wordless enquiry as to whether she is, and she smiles to herself, because she shouldn't be able to interpret post-coital gestures when it's the first time they've slept together.

She tightens her own grip in response, feels a kiss pressed to her shoulder blade in answer, doesn't miss how his lips are curled up in a grin as he kisses her. An answering smile spread across her own lips, and she pushes her body back against him, feeling as well as hearing the chuckle that vibrates through his system.

Those hands of his move then, gently helping her to turn around so that they are facing one another. It should be awkward, Sara thinks, but their bodies slide together easily, limbs fitting together as if they were made to, and he kisses her, long and slow and easy, and she loses all track of time, all track of everything except his lips and his hands and him.

When he pulls away from her, she barely stifles a moan of disappointment, only slightly mollified by his heavy breathing and dilated pupils. His fingers trail a path of fire down her spine, and she can hardly concentrate on his first word to her, a husky "Hey" that raises every hair on the back of her neck.

"Hey yourself," she smiles, trailing her own hand up his back, feeling the muscles there ripple under her touch. It recalls a memory of last night, of him moving above her, a memory that's good for another ripple of gooseflesh, a ripple that he takes as something else if the shadows that fall in his eyes are any indication.

"You ok?" he asks, worry in his tone, in his face, and his hand stills at mid-spine. He looks as if he's afraid that she's going to run screaming from the room, as if she's going to tell him that this was all a big mistake, that they shouldn't have done this.

Maybe, Sara thinks, the last part is right. There are any number of good reasons why they shouldn't have done this.

But she's not running away, and she doesn't think that it was a mistake.

"More than," she tells him, brushing her lips over his, stretching against him in a gesture that's familiar and intimate, designed to arouse and achieving its objective, Warrick's eyes showing as much, even as his lips voice doubt.

"You sure? Because I know we didn't talk about this last night…"

Sara chuckles. "Kinda hard when I was tearing your clothes off," she quips, and Warrick smiles at that too.

"You weren't the only one," he points out, and she's sure she remembers at least one of her shirt buttons flying across the room, victim of his nimble, but not entirely careful, fingers. "But Sara… if you think… I mean, if you want…"

"There's only one thing I want." She cuts off his halting words with a firm tone, moving against him just as firmly, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Nor is there any, as Warrick's lips, turned up in a smile, find hers, and when he pushes her onto her back, Sara goes willingly, leaving herself in his capable hands.

There is nowhere she'd rather be.


End file.
